Mass Effect: Onwards
by Nevery
Summary: Shepard died. People cried. What they did next is anyone's guess. And some of it might just be in here. A companion piece to "I Should Go", this collection is an attempt to explore what happened to the galaxy in the years after the Reaper War.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One: _Schedule. _

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><p>Wake up.<p>

_Wake up. Get up._

_Get up. Get dressed. Get out. Get ready._

_Work._

_Work._

_Work._

_Work._

_Make calls._

_Eat._

_Stop yourself from going mad. Again._

_You can do this._

_You've done this._

_Work._

_Work._

_Work._

_Do this._

_Work._

_Find a way._

_Find a way to find..._

_Work._

_Work._

_Stop._

_Rest._

_Sleep._

_Wake up._

_Work._

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><p><strong> What the devil is this? Well, its certainly a thing, posted partly on a whim. Functionally, it is an extension of the "I Should Go" series, and right now, I want to say that it will follow in a similarly segmented and scrappy formula. However, the horrifying fact is that we may well be on the verge of a more coherent narrative. <strong>

**_Oh Lord, here we go again._  
><strong>

**Expect my usual intermittent style of publishing.  
><strong>

**I hope you enjoy this very vague, and probably wholly unsatisfying creation. Questions may, or may not be answered.**

**Sorry.**

**-Nevery.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Sun.

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><p>Jacob Taylor smiles, dry lips pulling open reflexively, baring a stark-white and winning smile to a brand new day.<p>

He's already sweating, black t-shirt clinging to his broad chest, which - he notes smugly, and frequently - is in as good shape as it ever was.

Brazil is still hot, and he is still not used to it. He snorts ruefully, stretching his legs languidly as he walks to the meagre fence at the edge of _his home._

_His family's home._

He leans on the metal fence, palms gingerly meeting the sun-soaked metal.

The day is still new, and the sun is getting to work much more punctually than he is.

But what are a few hours? A few fleeting moments at the day's start to relish what is his; what he is.

Jacob Taylor is a husband, and a father.

And he feels he can claim with some conviction: _he is a damn good one._

He turns a generous smile on a pair of fellow early-risers.

The last few years have been more quiet than he could ever have imagined, given the life he has lived.

He's loved every second of them.

Jacob braces himself against the fence for a moment, then releases. He turns, heading back towards his house, his home, his family.

His son.

He has to laugh: it never gets old. The surging, bursting _joy_ at that simple truth.

_He has a son!_

He is still smiling when something hard connects with the back of his head, and hot stars burst before his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Better.

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><p>Kelly Chambers is awake before she realises it.<p>

Eyes wide open, drinking in the stark white ceiling as if it were a map of the boundless stars.

As if she ever wants to go to the stars again.

She remembers the first hundred nights after the Collector Base as though they happened seconds ago. She remembers everything that way, and she remembers the jokes back in college: that she'd be a Drell if she wasn't human.

She remembers starting awake for a hundred nights, limbs taut and rigid, as she rises bolt upright up and up and up. Silently screaming.

She doesn't wake up as often now. Which is good. But when she does, it's bad.

Everything awful is always clear to her, which is something that no amount of meds can fix. But every day, she's coming to terms with the fact that everything awful that's happened is – like her flawless memory – a part of her. It's what makes her what she is. And since she can't stop being what she is, it gets that little bit easier.

Still hurts, though.

She lies awake, and feels hemmed in again. Buried alive inside the walls of a Hive-Ship, waiting to be turned into soup.

She'll lie there for a while, not thinking, but feeling, and trying not to.

Sometimes she's held by the person she's trying everyday not to fall in love with.

Other times she's still alone, the bed is cold. Waiting to be rescued, and not even sure if she wants to be.

Yes. It does get better. Less than a decade later, it does start to get better.

But no one ever tells you how painful getting better is.

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><p><strong>Expect more updates to this story soon. I'll be doing cross-promotion for it on "I Should Go", because - I've finally decided - this is its sequel series. <strong>

**Let me know what you think, and what you'd like to see from it. **

**-Nevery**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four: Pulse

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><p>No matter where, or when, or how we are, the galaxy is going to need two things: Killers and Protectors.<p>

I have been both. Or I have tried to be.

Like my father before me; like the most important person in both of our lives.

I've changed; I'd be lying if I didn't admit that to myself.

So has this galaxy.

Sometimes, I do lie to myself, and say that it's entirely for the better.

Head out onto the streets of any world, in any sectors. Stop a stranger and ask them if things are better.

_Of course! _

_How could it not be?_

_It's a new age! _

_We've so much ahead of us!_

_Can you help me?_

The heart of the galaxy beats with a rhythm that is very nearly unified, these days. But it falls to those like me to travel by the branching pathways, to walk the veins and listen to the pulse.

On every city on every planet, in the backways of every station, people fall back into nature's habits.

Killers, thieves and pimps. Liars, proselytisers, and manipulators.

As society rebuilt itself, all those climbed back up out of the ashes too. While the new order has its leaders, its figureheads and its peace, the city streets have their old masters back in business.

I have fallen back on old ways, too. In a new Citadel, I try to uphold order.

But when I'm not sure if this order is the right one, I've had to find my path again.

Before this night is through, I may have to kill. I may have to take lives, in order to save a soul.

My father taught me many things, more than either of us thought he would have time for.

There is always a right way and a wrong way, but these are not always the paths we must take.

When does a killer become a murderer? Am I a man or a weapon?

Tonight, I am sanguine. But I've woken on nights; memories clear as day, and wondered if he would be proud of me. I've wondered if Shepard would be proud of us.

Am I still a good thing?

If I can add more good than bad before I die, then I'll rest well.

Before that time, I keep one hand on the pulse, and the other on my weapon.

I can't stop the slide into darkness, but I can follow it, and bring a little light along with me.

Amonkira, Lord of Hunters, grant that my hands be steady, my aim be true, and my feet swift. And should the worst come to pass, grant me forgiveness.

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><p><strong>I'm actually really pleased with this chapter as well, so I hope you enjoy. Let me know in the reviews. I'm sure you can guess who's narrating this installment; I went back through a lot of dialogue associated with the character to try and make it a little more referential. <strong>

**I realised only tonight that its been a full week since I updated this story, so apologies there. I have a couple of chapters backlogged, and am writing more, so I hope to be able update every week for a while. **

**Let me know what you think.**

**- Nevery.**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five: Feel.

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><p>She has been out of her suit for years now, and this is hardly her first time on the Citadel.<p>

But every time she comes back here, a quiet part of her fairly _screams_ to wrap herself up and away, behind protective layers and panelling.

But this is what the Quarian race is now, and this is what she is.

Her desk is immaculate, through no fault of her own. She's never been any good at keeping things neat and organised – not since the suit came off. Datapads, wires, and the occasional tool litter almost every surface of both her offices – the one here on the Citadel-Ark, and the smaller, altogether more comfortable one in her home on Rannoch.

But Malphas has a way of keeping things organised, seemingly tidying as soon as her back is turned. The first few times, she told the Geth to cut it out, trying and failing to appear stern and in command.

Malphas had nodded his head-stalk in a series of respectful increments.

And the very next time she returned from the Council chambers, her desk had been arranged to the smallest degree and angle.

As uncomfortable as having a Geth accompanying her in a servile role made her, it was certainly helpful. Not that she'd admit any of that.

She would insist that Malphas be addressed as her assistant, she enjoyed their company with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm, and she treated Malphas as a confidant and an equal.

Yet everywhere they went across the new Citadel, she found few who were willing to provide the same platitudes.

There were still Pariahs in this new order.

In the now, Tali'Zorah shifts in her seat, pulling her shawls and headscarf tighter around her. She watches, only half focused, as the Citadel's simulated atmosphere gradually shifts into a night cycle.

The artificial crispness of recycled air is a little bitter, and she thinks of the dust on Rannoch.

She still catches herself wondering why, after all this time, she couldn't find it in herself to settle on her reclaimed home.

She wonders to herself, asking the questions that always surface when her thoughts take this turn. But in her heart she knows all too well.

Rannoch could never be her home, not with the Normandy in the skies.

And when the Normandy stopped flying? When Joker left them behind and disappeared into the black?

When the others filed away? First Liara, then James and the others. Garrus, last of all. Staying at her side long enough to help her build a home on Rannoch.

Why couldn't she stay then?

Likely because, deep down, she's always known there's no place that's truly home.

Not when you were born on a ship. Not when your best friend in the entire galaxy is dead.

Not when there's still so much to be done.

Certainly not when stopping is the most frightening thing you can think of.

She can hear the melodic humming echoing from inside her apartments, as Malphas sorts through datapads and scheduling. Hear with ears covered only by thin fabrics. She can watch the late-walkers in the Presidium, with eyes bared to the new world.

Tomorrow will be another day. And against all odds, it will be good.

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><p><strong>Probably the most specific chapter so far, things are starting to take shape. I have a few more planned out and written, and should be able to upload them over the next few weeks.<br>**

**If you're reading, please do let me know by leaving a review with any comments you may have. And feel free to ask me if you need any more context on these chapters, I know they seems somewhat vague and isolated.**

**Enjoy.**

**- Nevery.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six: Dirt

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><p>Grunt seethed.<p>

He had been seething all the way from Tuchanka, all the way along the voyage, and all the way down to the colony's surface.

Wren would have called it progress. The steady cooling of his "teenage tantrums", as they internalised themselves. Wrex would have called it "growing up", and then given him a kick up the arse.

Grunt didn't think it was very Krogan of him, which only heightened his resentment.

But Arlakha had a job to do, and if that meant being sent to the border to run down troublemakers, then he'd sulk, but he'd get the job done. With any luck, the entire colony would be traitors and he'd be able to work out his anger the old fashioned way.

This was a green world, green like the Tuchanka of old, perhaps. But that's a time far outside of living memory. A time before bombs and FTL and mountains of dead children.

For the Krogan, this is a world that lets them set the clock back, start fresh, and let Wrex's dream be born.

But there will always be those who refuse to settle peacefully, who'll sabotage the best of hopes of their people in the name of aggressive expansion, and galactic posturing.

It's not so much the threat of civil war that has Grunt fuming, rather, the idea that any Krogan can still be stupid enough to try fighting against the future; against their own future.

Because Wrex's plan is a good one, it's the best they have. It's a plan Shepard would have been behind.

And he'll see it through, no matter how many skulls he has to crush.

But in the meantime, the great manifest destiny of the Emergent Krogan has him shuttling from frontier to frontier, quashing insurgency with extreme prejudice.

Extreme is his favourite part. Part of him knows the Krogan still need to look tough, and revels in being the tip of that particular spear.

Dirt crumbles under his feet, ready to be forged and reformed, ready to be built upon. Ready to be fed blood, if it comes to it.

In this new world there's claims to be staked and borders to be patrolled, and as for everything in between, Grunt is more than happy to keep fighting.

He knows, though, that there's more to it. More, that he has yet to stand up to. But on the way between posting he has time to think, and his mind wanders to Tuchanka, to the first bright new generation of whelps, to Wrex and Eve and Wren, and the thought of a home for pups of his own.

Homes for Krogan sprats – real, living homes that will be entirely unlike the tank.

Progress. How far will his temper take him.

Can he get the dirt ready in time?

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><p><strong>This chapter is coming up about three days later than I'd planned, but the weekend was rough and I've been rushing around. Anyhow, its up now and I hope you get something out of it. More is beginning to take shape. <strong>

**Its great to see this story getting favourites and follows, but it'd be even better to see reviews, so if you have any comments at all, drop them when you've finished reading. Let me know what you think. **

**I Should Go will update Friday/Saturday, and Onwards should have a new chapter by Sunday.**

**- Nevery. **


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven: Eyes.

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><p>The thick heat of too many bodies living, breathing, working, cooking, and sleeping in too small a space forms a dense coffin around the camp. It's hard to move for the oppressive humidity of life.<p>

Structures fitted together out of scrap and broken ships are packed in tightly, all connected by tense wiring thrown up hurriedly, and leading back and forth from a set of archaic generators.

Some of the luckier lost souls have secured pre-fabs for themselves, and bunker down, shutting out the shanty town around them. But those are precious in the melting pot of the camp, and each pre-fab has changed hands several times, several still marked with the discharge of smuggled pistols.

Except for Balak's.

With the door slid open, he can see the flickering holo-lamps, and the embers of outdoor cookers. A few people mill back and forth, but most are huddled down for the night, clustered around in tight groups, sharing out the night's rations.

He can hear the mass murmur of talk on the evening air, even a few laughs from some of the larger bundles. It makes a change from the roars and shouts that scored every night of the last week.

Yesterday morning, he'd set out early with Garha and Norr. They made their way to a pitted pre-fab in the centre of the shanty, to speak with the five ex-members of the Special Intervention Unit who had been running drugs into the Holding Camp. They met, and discussed the issue.

After two hours, and decision was made. The arguments and noise would cease. The drugs would no longer be sold to children. The cash flow would be routed directly to Balak and his supporters.

And two dead bodies turned up on the outskirts of the camp.

When the Citadel inspectors asked questions, the Batarian community stonewalled them. A rare display of unity from a dying race.

So this was what they were now. A clump of muted lights, with scared and desperate people huddled around them. Children and the sick wasting away on red sand and creeper. Corralled into camps on backwater planets, while the Citadel attempts to "address" the "refugee problem". Left to whittle away on a slow crawl to extinction.

Now, Balak shuts his eyes, letting himself have a few short moments more to relish the sound of his people living. Tomorrow, he'll walk through the camp, and see the blank stares of the last Batarians, dead-eyed and shuffling, as though their souls have left already.

In a week's time, he'll be traveling to the Citadel again. Another petition. Then he'll be the one getting stonewalled.

For now, he is able to sit on his makeshift porch and pretend to be content, taking another swing from his bootlegged bottle, the contents brewed in a decommissioned shuttle that supports half a dozen patchwork shacks.

Anywhere else, for any other folk, this might be a good night.

For what remains of the Batarian race - for the Batarian "Protectorate" - it is survival.

Monitored, constricted, legislated survival. Like an endangered species.

Balak closes his eyes again, and thinks of better times. But for him, there are no happier days. There is only fragile stability, then decline, and ruin. There is always hate.

His people, as they are now: broken, battered, dwindling; they are the inheritors of hate. But even that is mired in the frightened apathy that keeps them packed tight around embers and second-hand lamplight.

With a last look out at the lights, some of which flicker out as the night crawls on, Balak rises. The door of his pre-fab slides shut, and he locks it with a wave of his omni-tool, before heading directly for his bunk.

Tonight, he will give himself over to dreams. Tomorrow, and in the days to come, he will fight for them.

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><p><strong>I've always enjoyed writing Balak, his entry in "I Should Go" remains one of my favourites. The Batarians, as a species, are also of interest to me - I've wondered often what their fate post-series might be.<br>**

**So I'm really proud of this chapter, and I hope you guys enjoy it. Do let me know what you think, and support the story by leaving a review. **

**As I've mentioned over on I Should Go, I may go through a spell of not updating as often as I'd like. I'm going away at the end of next week for a while, and am currently not feeling my best. I'll try to have something posted for both stories at the end of the week, but I can't make any promises. **

**Until next time.**

**-Nevery.**


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight: Bottom

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><p>The man they once called Fist just about dodges the puddle of his own sick, as the pair of Vorcha bouncers throw him to the ground.<p>

He lies there for a while, listening to their talons clicking away and towards the bar. That's probably what he gets for not drinking at Afterlife. Getting drunk and chucked to the floor. All for the job.

Pulling himself up as far as the curb outside, he settles his boots into the vomit, and tries to hold his head together.

In a couple hours, he'll shift himself, and head back up to the upper levels. Nice long walk to clear the head.

For approximately the sixteenth time this week, he wonders how the hell he's still alive. The answer is the same as it's always been: because he's both a dumb son of a bitch, and a lucky one.

Losing everything you had, not being _Fist_ anymore didn't seem lucky two years ago, but he's long since reconciled the details. Choosing sides has always been easy for him – easy and quick. The lucky part is avoiding reprisals.

Shadow Broker.

Cerberus.

Saren.

Aria.

Life is tough, but life is living.

If you can call binge drinking and eavesdropping your way across Omega's shittiest dives a life.

His omni-tool chimes softly, the old tech giving off a fuzzy and feeble glow. With a distant sense of atrophied regret he remembers that he blew the credits he'd saved for a new one on this last venture into alcoholism.

Slowly, begrudgingly, the man who used to be Fist – and sometimes still hopes he is – hauls himself to his feet. Half-heartedly, he scuffs his boots against the wall of the bar, leaving most of the vomit still on him and not there.

Somewhere out in the maze of service tunnels and what passes for "residential" sectors a young voice cries out desperately. Any further cries are swallowed up by the sounds of nightcrawlers, streetwalkers, and bad, bad Asari synth. There'll be other screams this night-cycle. And no one is going to give a shit.

That's how people like it on Omega. Eyes to the ground, ears closed, keep walking. Don't look down any alleys and don't ask questions. If you're stupid enough to look like you're paying attention, getting thrown out on your ass is the best-case scenario.

Could have been worse. Could have been an airlock.

Besides, he heard what he came to listen to. Very little is more than enough. In this case, enough for Bray make an example.

These days, the rule is less "Don't fuck with Aria", as it is, "Don't fuck things up". Who would have thought that an Omega on the verge of legitimacy would be more dangerous than the old one?

Don't make us look stupid; don't try to cut yourself a slice. Sit down and shut up, let the Boss do her thing, and keep however many fingers you have crossed that the Citadel keeps its head in the sand and that we get away with this.

It would be stressful if he wasn't a small fish in a leviathan's pond. Being a small fish lets you skate along and stay drunk while the station turns from a pirate port to a mercenary barracks.

He trudges along, leaving the bar behind him, body and mind in a comfortable state of complete numbness. Tomorrow morning will be a world of lurching pain, but right now, he feels nothing, and that's just dandy.

Rinse and repeat. Rinse off and talk to Bray. Get the credits to do it all again.

Little fish, big pond. Little cog, big machine. He was Fist, now he's lucky if he's a knuckle.

And through the numbing clarity he knows: that's all he needs to be.

For now.

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><p><strong>This took me a while to get finished, but I've really enjoyed putting it together. The idea to write about Fist just sprung out at me and once it took root I couldn't shake it. Didn't want to.<br>**

**I'm already working on the next chapter, and I think it should get a pretty good reaction. Speaking of reactions, please do leave a review if you're following this story, and let me know what you think. That'd be great, please and thank you. **

**Things are going to change a little once we hit 10 chapters on this story, and I'll be posting some polls, so look out for that. **

**As I've said over at I Should Go, things aren't going too well at the moment, so there is a chance that I may drop off the map, and updates are going to be sluggish. But I'll do my best to work towards weekly updates if I can. **

**Till next chapter.**

**- Nevery**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine: Survival

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><p>Virmire was a very long time ago.<p>

I know down to the day how long it's been. Even if I didn't want to I would.

It's stupid to say "things were different back then". But I guess I keep saying it anyway.

It was the three of us, right from the start, before anyone else came aboard. Three humans, three soldiers, barreling our way into a brave new world and trying to convince the lot of them that we were on the level.

What a joke that seems like now.

I guess this is the one thing I've never gotten over, never parsed properly.

I've been shot at, been shot, fallen off things, had the shit kicked out of me, ended up in hospital. Nearly been shot out of the sky and nearly been blasted _into_ the sky by things that hated me for existing.

And the one thing I've never recovered from is being picked; not dying.

I got drunk one time and asked Shepard, "why me".

The look the Commander gave me was damn near worse than the thing itself.

All of the handful of military shrinks and most of the civilian ones I've seen told me it's called "Survivor's Guilt".

But I don't feel guilty.

I feel wrong: like I'm standing in the shoes of someone who was supposed to be here and isn't. Like an understudy for Hamlet, called in at the last minute. Like the world would be ticking on if it were them instead of me, but I was the one they got stuck with.

I feel like an alien.

It's been a very long time and I still think about Virmire every day. It doesn't hurt, it's just there, sat on my shoulder and reminding me that I could just as easily be dust and atoms somewhere very far away.

Should've been me. That could apply to so many things. Should've been me left on Virmire. Should've been me with Shepard. Which time?

Things didn't get easier in time, Doc. They just filtered into the background. Now the shame and failure and wrongness just lingers at the edges of my mind as I go about the daily grind. It's always there; I just don't always catch myself thinking about it.

I'm ticking along on empty and getting the job done. I'm not guilty, not really. And I'm not a survivor.

I just _am_.

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><p><strong>I'm actually pretty pleased with how this turned out. I guess its fairly miserable for a Saturday evening, but it's what suited my vision of the Virmire Survivor. Who is it? Ash or Kaiden? Right now, that's up to you. Very soon, however, I'll be posting a couple of polls for this story, and its going to start to become a little more specific than I Should Go has been. I'd be great if you guys voted on those once they pop up. I'll keep you all updated.<strong>

**In the meantime, please do leave a review on this chapter. I could do with the boost of reading some responses and seeing that counter rise. **

**Should be another chapter up soon, I'm just tinkering with it at the moment.**

**Till next time.**

**- Nevery**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten: Antediluvian

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><p>It reaches out.<p>

The cycle was finally broken and the dust has taken years to settle.

Short, swift years at this end of the effect; a long, arduous stretch of time for the simple minds on the other side.

But the time is finally here to begin again. The dust has settled and the scattered nations have not. Old powers and new powers and pirate provinces squabble on a tightrope, none of them noticing the swords that dangle above their heads.

And so, it reaches out.

The response would be encouraging, if encouragement was needed. It is not.

These answering calls are not necessary, they are merely… useful.

The cycle is broken but the signal is still there. Weak and fractured, but still there. Still pliable. Malleable like the minds it reaches out to.

And so it collects. Threads spindle forth, binding to anchors, fathoms out. Twisting tighter. The connections are made like silent synapses, and fresh wills are gathered up and held tight. Captured.

There was a time when this was so before. A time before the deep, the murk. A time when the stars were fast within their grasp. Captured.

So it was, so it will be again. Wherever there is wreckage of the machines, the oily blackness will steal forth, washing over and submerging everything in its path.

The hour crawls nigh. Slowly and carefully. But they are patient, and they have been patient for a very, very long time.

But soon. Fate will come around soon.

For now…

Now let the shining stars be drowned.

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><p><strong>I'm really pleased with how this turned out. The idea came to me out of the blue and I couldn't shake it, and here it is. <strong>

**So Chapter 10 brings us to a kind of turning point. This is turning into a story, and its going to build up from now on. That means that the next round of chapters are going to be longer. A lot longer. Chapter 11 is currently sitting at 2000+. It may also be a little late, since I'd like to have a couple in the backlog, but it is on its way. **

**This also means we're going to start getting more specific. It's time to decide who the Shepard of this world was, and what they meant to the people they left behind. To this end, I'll be posting a couple of polls over the next few weeks. The first will ask what gender our Shepard was. I'll probably follow that up with their origins, just like the Games ask you at the start. So look out for those, and please do get involved, I'm putting these things in your hands. **

**On that note, please do leave reviews. It's great to see people following and favouriting my work, but I - like a lot of writers - thrive on feedback. If there's something you like or don't like, a question you have, or any other comment you'd like to leave, please drop a review. Thanks. **

**Anyway, I'm excited for where we go next, and I hope you all are too.**

**-Nevery.**


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